


Not Quite An Island

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Bullying, Character Study, Eventual Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 08:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13736916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: Mycroft thought he would always be alone, without even a friend, let alone anything more.





	Not Quite An Island

Mycroft had always been different and had always known he was different. He remembered being three and one of the neighbor kids throwing rocks at him because he asked too many questions and seemed to already know too much.

Mummy had patched him up and told him he shouldn’t play so rough with the neighbor boys.

So he learned to keep quiet. To watch and say nothing. He could ask questions of Father, the one person who seemed to have endless patience with his questions, but Father was often working, or tired, or Mycroft could see that he didn’t really want to talk to right now.

By the time he was five Mummy was teaching him at home. He could devour books and remember the contents. She still shooed him outside to play with the neighbors from time to time. He tried to pretend it didn’t hurt his feelings that they wanted nothing to do with him. They’d chase him sometimes, and he’d always lose, already putting on weight, and come home with dirt in his hair and his clothes and sometimes bruises that he did his best to conceal from Mummy.

When he was six, Mummy got pregnant. He already had enough knowledge of biology to dismiss the whole stork idea, especially given that he’d read grandfather’s medical dictionary the summer before. Still, he watched with wonder as Mummy got bigger, and busied herself with preparations. Father took an assignment out of the country for a couple of months, promising he’d back for the baby and touseling Mycroft’s hair. 

Mycroft used Mummy’s focus and distraction to avoid the neighbors and stay indoors as much as he could. His room was safe, his books were safe. There were no schoolyard taunts that could follow him under the blankets with a torch and a book.

Sherlock was born on a cold January morning. Father only just got back in time. Mycroft peered into the cradle and made a silent promise that he’d keep him safe. He’d read a lot of books, after all, and older siblings were always protecting the younger ones. He wasn’t quite sure how he could do so, since he couldn’t protect himself, but he would try.

The fussy infant grew quickly into an energetic and wild toddler. Where Mycroft had always been quiet and reserved, Sherlock filled up any room he was in. Mummy and Daddy didn’t talk to Mycroft as much, their hands full with the child that demanded their attention. Mycroft found refuge where he always had, in his books, in his room.

Sherlock had fewer ideas of boundaries and would often barge in without knocking, wanting to ask Mycroft questions or get his big brother to play with him. Mycroft seemed unable to keep from indulging him, teaching him the things he’d taught himself, showing him how to observe.

The trouble really came when Sherlock, four years and precocious, told Mrs. Davenport that her husband had been spending a lot of time with Miss Harris. He hadn’t meant anything mean by it, of course, it was simply something he’d observed. But it caused consternation in their parents set and suddenly Mycroft was being packed off to boarding school as ‘they really should have sent him some time ago’. But he knew it was because they were worried about how much influence he was having on Sherlock. As if he’d told Sherlock what to say, instead of Sherlock working things out for himself.

Besides, Mr. Davenport and Miss Harris had been having an affair for at least a year before Sherlock brought it up.

Boarding school was something of a disaster. Mycroft did his best to conceal himself, but he didn’t quite have the money of some of his classmates, and the bullying began again with a vengeance. Mycroft tried to ignore it, tried to channel his eleven-year-old anger into studying harder, being better. If they were going to treat him like he was something Other, then Other he would be.

And when he got home again on break, Sherlock was more wild and reckless than he had been before. Five years old, he’d play by himself, but Mycroft could see that he’d had his own run-ins with the neighbors. He tried to offer his own advice, but Sherlock had turned away from him. Mycroft felt like a stranger in his own house, and even his own room began to feel more like a prison than a refuge. 

Returning to school wasn’t much better, but at least he could learn and begin to mimic his peers. Halfway through the next year he realized he had a crush on one of the other boys. That would only lead to more problems, so he buried those feelings, not even daring to commit them to paper.

Things evened out after that. Mycroft took all of his feelings and buried them deep. He started to become known as an unfeeling machine of a young man, but that was fine. He followed the social niceties as much as he could, got into the university of his choice with no problems.

Mycroft chose government as a field of study because he was fascinated by the way people behaved in large groups. And countries mimicked the playground behavior of children in so many ways. He had an aptitude for this as well, being able to look at things clearly and to find the patterns. If only his own personal life were so tidy.

He’d kept an eye on Sherlock, as best as he could. By the time Mycroft was twenty-seven and Sherlock twenty he knew his little brother had become an addict and dropped out of school. Mummy and Daddy fretted a bit, but Mycroft did his best to shield them. He did what he could to ensure Sherlock’s survival, all the while accumulating power and prestige at his job and easily climbing the ranks.

If coming home to an empty house was the price for his ambition, then he told himself that was all well and good. 

So he was startled one day to find his life was not so neat as he’d suspected. Sherlock had gotten a bit better, though he still used with alarming regularity. Mycroft was slightly less worried about him dying in a gutter these days and had relaxed his observation of him, knowing that Sherlock preferred it that way.

Getting a call from a police officer wasn’t unusual. Getting a call from a police officer who was willing to work with Sherlock on condition of sobriety was. Greg Lestrade was charming and dangerous and Mycroft didn’t quite know what to do with the way his stomach flopped when Lestrade turned that smile on him.

So he did what he’d always done, turned his attention to work, kept the man at arm’s length, though they did meet on occasion to talk about Sherlock. Lestrade was married and decent and even if sometimes Mycroft’s thoughts betrayed him in the night, he banished them by morning, burying them with all the others.

Sherlock did, in fact, get sober, not that there weren’t occasional relapses. The good days began to outnumber the bad ones and Mycroft knew that much of the credit went to Lestrade and his tolerance. Mycroft still watched over his little brother, but he knew that he wasn’t alone in it now.

John Watson was a surprise, and, for the most part, a welcome one. Mycroft took another step back from hovering over Sherlock, moving through his life as he always had. He still met up with Lestrade, but there was time now to talk about other things.

Gradually, Mycroft realized he had made a friend. A curious thing, and not something he’d ever truly experienced. But apparently Lestrade’s skill at handling one Holmes carried over to the other. There were still those buried feelings, but if they would ever jeopardize this blooming friendship then he could and would continue to ignore them.

Lestrade got divorced. About time, too, considering all his wife had done. Mycroft watched as he carefully reentered the dating pool, fighting back jealousy he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager, seeing the boy he liked kissing his girlfriend in the park. It wasn’t his place, and he didn’t interfere, simply attempted to be the friend that Greg needed, even if he wasn’t very good at it.

One warm, rainy night Mycroft got a text from Greg asking for a ride. Mycroft was surprised but didn’t hesitate to have his car sent. He came along, though he couldn’t be quite sure why. Greg was drunk, the woman he’d been dating for two weeks had dumped him, and he was hardly in shape to be left alone. So he’d brought Greg home and installed him in the nearly unused guest bedroom. As he’d turned to leave Greg grabbed his arm and pulled him down, kissing him.

Mycroft was so surprised he didn’t reciprocate. Greg slumped back in the bed and muttered something about how Mycroft was too good for him. Mycroft pointed out that he was drunk and they could talk about it later and tucked him.

Then he went to his own bed, thinking about the feel and the taste of Greg’s lips on his own. It figured that his first kiss would come after he was forty and only because the man who delivered it was drunk. The gorgeous, kind man currently snoring across the hall. Mycroft fell asleep thinking of Greg’s eyes.

Greg fixed breakfast in the morning. Mycroft tried not to think about how good he looked, sleep-tousled hair, a white undershirt that left little to the imagination. The treasure trail leading down revealed when Greg stretched. He didn’t have these kinds of thoughts, he told himself. Greg was a friend and that was all he ever would be. He’d deduced some time ago that Greg fancied both men and women, but he’d only ever dated women, and that didn’t seem likely to change anytime soon.

“I could get used to waking up in your house,” said Greg, giving Mycroft a sleepy smile over his mug.

Mycroft bit his lip, looking away. “I have the room if you have too much to drink again.”

Greg cocked his head at him and got up, sitting back down close to Mycroft and putting a hand over his. Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat as Greg’s fingers entwined with his. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“You, only just had a breakup. You might still be a bit hungover…” Mycroft never stammered, but he did now, even as he felt the warmth of Greg’s hand like a brand.

“I’d like to kiss you,” said Greg. “Properly.”

Mycroft looked at him with wide eyes and gave a tiny nod. Greg broke into a brilliant smile and cupped his cheek, gently guiding him into a kiss.

With a sigh, Mycroft relaxed. It felt like coming home. It was exhilarating. It was terrifying.

“You’ve been in love with me for a long time,” said Greg as he slowly pulled away.

Mycroft blushed and blinked, still dazzled by the kiss and for once in his life struck dumb.

“That’s okay.” Greg’s free hand reached out to run his thumb along Mycroft’s lips. “I’ve been in love with you, too.”

“Gregory,” whispered Mycroft, trembling, the dam holding back all of his emotions threatening to break.

“Let me take care of you,” said Greg, just as soft. “We can take things slow, I know this is new for you. But Mycroft, you deserve to breathe.”

Mycroft squeezed his hand and shifted towards Greg. Greg folded him against his chest and rubbed his arm. Mycroft had never known that anything could feel like this. “I trust you.”

“That is the bravest thing anyone has ever said to me,” said Greg into his hair, kissing his temple.

Mycroft closed his eyes, more words tumbling around his brain. But there was no need to speak them. Greg was here. Greg knew everything he wanted to say, and, more than that, Greg wanted to stay.

It was everything he’d never known he needed.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is mostly just a rambly pile of Mycroft feels, but thank you for reading!


End file.
